


Addendum

by Vyc



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Angst, Canon Rewrite, F/M, Forgiveness, Found Family, Gen, Humour, Love, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Recovery, References to Alcohol, References to Drugs, References to Torture, references to death, references to sexual harrassment, references to slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-06 17:57:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vyc/pseuds/Vyc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Additions, expansions, and rewrites to various DS9 episodes, eventually with chapters as wide-ranging in topic as darts with Garak to Kira coping with the reality of herself as Intendant of Terok Nor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 4x17 "Accession"

**Author's Note:**

> Since DS9 was written in a 45-minute episode format and was subject to budgets, actor availability, and so forth, there was a lot that the writers couldn't do with the series that, IMO, would have made a number of the episodes stronger. It's perfectly understandable, what had to get dropped or had to be written as it was, and I'm certainly not blaming the writers for circumstances--but that doesn't mean I don't want to try my hand at filling in the gaps, doing rewrites, and generally playing with situations to see what I can come up with.
> 
> This will be a multi-chapter series, written in the order that I feel like getting to episodes. (So, at the moment, I'm working on one from Season 2, which will be posted next.) Given the nature of DS9, there will be multiple ratings and genres in the course of this fic. The tags will be updated to reflect the additions, so please keep an eye out!
> 
> This chapter: The original scene from this episode had Bashir playing darts with Morn for humour (and probably to give Morn's actor his required appearance in the show), and it was pretty funny, but it also had the unfortunate side effect of making poor Bashir look very friendless. So, I rewrote the scene to include his friends. ...Bashir probably would have been happier if I had left well enough alone.

"I don't suppose you'd like to play darts with me tomorrow night, would you?" Julian asked all of a sudden.

Garak gave him an odd look, for which Julian didn't blame him. After all, five seconds ago, they had been discussing the poetry of Akorem Laan in honor of Akorem's return to Bajoran society. "Darts, Doctor?"

"Yes, that's right. It's a lot of fun—I think you'd enjoy yourself." He put on a hopeful look.

"I assume this request is because Chief O'Brien no longer has the time to play, due to the return of his family?"

Julian didn't bother to wonder just how Garak had learned about such a comparatively minor station matter. He was Garak: that was answer enough. "Well, yes—but—it would be nice to do something different, wouldn't it?"

Unfortunately, Garak didn't seem convinced. "I think you'd find me an indifferent player at best. It's not a game I have any experience with, beyond occasionally listening to you complain about being beaten."

. . . He was going to ignore that last part. "It's all right—I'll teach you as we go."

He just wanted _someone_ to play with, and what better choice than his oldest friend on the station?

He watched Garak hesitate and pressed his advantage. "Please, Garak?"

He wasn't sure what caused it, but he could actually see the moment Garak gave in, and he only just didn't pump his fist.

"Oh, very well. Just as long as you don't hold it against me if I'm a poor partner," he conceded.

Julian grinned in delight; his expression only grew when he pulled a returning smile from Garak. "I promise."

*

It had all been going so well, Julian thought glumly as their second game progressed. Garak had shown up precisely on time, they picked up a glass of kanar and a pint at the bar, and they'd gone over to the dartboard to begin their games, almost as though this were a routine for them. He'd coached Garak through the first game, and his friend had done respectably well. Julian had beaten him (though he had not . . . quite been trying his hardest), but by a slim enough margin to make the win pleasurable for him and the loss presumably tolerable for Garak.

And then he had started paying a little more attention to the way Garak was lining up his shots.

Specifically, to the way he was aiming to miss.

He hadn't been happy when he'd confronted Garak with this particular fact, and all the soothing Garak had attempted had done nothing to improve his mood. He'd made him promise to play to the fullest of his ability, and after some mild protesting, Garak had agreed.

And now Julian was losing. Badly. He couldn't even pull up his own game to compensate, either, without looking suspicious. He had to simply stand here with his pint and take the crushing defeat like a man.

He really missed Miles.

*

"I don't suppose _you'd_ be interested in the Battle of Britain?" Julian asked Garak once the Chief had dragged away from Quark's, the both of them more despondent than ever.

"I'm afraid not." Garak considered him for a beat, then set the darts he'd been holding on the table with their mostly empty glasses. "And I'm afraid I need to be getting back to the shop. Ensign Doran needs all of his uniforms taken in and he's getting most impatient with me."

You mean you feel sorry for me and are trying to spare at least a _little_ of my pride, Julian interpreted. He was too depressed to be irritated by Garak's pity, though, and so all he said was, "All right. Thanks for the games, Garak. You're a real natural," he couldn't help but add.

Garak spread his hands. "What can I say? Threading needles is wonderful for one's hand-eye coordination."

Julian sighed. "I'm sure it is. . . ."

After Garak had left, Julian wandered upstairs to his and Miles' usual holosuite and came to a stop in front of the door. They'd already paid for the time, so it would be a shame to waste it, but it just wouldn't be the same going through a simulation alone—hmm.

He tapped his combadge. "Bashir to Dax."

"Go ahead, Julian."

"Jadzia, are you on duty right now?"

"No, not for another four hours. Why?"

"Miles can't make our usual holosuite time, so I was wondering if you'd like to join me instead."

Jadzia's tone markedly brightened, and at last, he felt himself smile. "I'd love to—it sounds like fun! I'll bring my bat'leth. Dax out."

There, Julian thought as he keyed in his access code, suddenly much happier. Today wasn't going to be such a waste after all.

*

"Come on, Julian, put your body into it!" Jadzia encouraged at top volume as she gutted another holographic Klingon warrior. "You have to use your strength to back up the balance of the blade!"

Julian didn't answer as he—he didn't _hide_ behind his own bat'leth, exactly. He was just defending himself and waiting for the right moment to strike.

He was also trying to come up with a way to explain that he and Miles usually set their simulations on a lower difficulty level so they could play around and have fun without worrying about being handed an embarrassing defeat. Right now, all of his ideas made him look like . . . well, a wimp. He certainly didn't need to do that to himself when these Klingons were very happy to do it for him.

With a shout that probably sounded just as pathetic to everyone else as it did to him, Julian took Jadzia's advice and tried to go on the offensive. This was, he vowed, the very last time he was going to agree to trying one of her programs.

He _really_ missed Miles.


	2. 2x23 "Crossover," Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian and Kira return from the Mirrorverse physically in one piece. Their mental and emotional recoveries, however, aren't so straightforward. Part 1: Julian copes with the roles the different versions of his friends play and comes to terms with one death in the Mirrorverse in particular.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this got long. Really long, which is why I haven't updated this fic since it was posted. Originally, this was supposed to be a single chapter, but there was just so much awful thrown at Julian and Kira in this episode that I ended up just writing and writing and writing. So it's now in three parts, one of which is very short, but it just made thematic sense to divide it up that way.
> 
> This segment of the fic brought to you by "[Have You Ever](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WXTTfgu5prY)" by The Offspring, which turned up on my mp3 player the moment I began my planning.
>
>> Have you ever been at someplace  
> Recognizing everybody's face  
> Until you realized that there was no one there you knew

The runabout has barely stabilized from their flight through the wormhole, has barely stopped shooting sparks when the hail from DS9 comes in. The Major immediately answers it. Seeing Commander Sisko appear onscreen, tall and controlled and in every possible way different from that self-absorbed pirate, is a relief . . . but it's a distant one. Julian is starving and filthy, he aches dreadfully, and above all, he's heartsick. And if that's the way he feels, he can't begin to imagine what it's like to be the Major right now.

"We've got ships from here to New Bajor out looking for you. Where have you been?" Sisko asks, his own relief much clearer—and much simpler.

"Through the looking-glass, Commander," Kira answers. (He didn't know she'd read Carroll.) "But it's good to be back."

He can see her sigh and only then does he smile, because with that level of understatement, honestly, how could he not?

It's good to be back. It's good to step out of the runabout and back onto DS9, _his_ DS9, his home. He and the Major are given lots of pats on the back, hands on shoulders, a hug each from Jadzia. Kira's clothes and his filth (and stench—yes, thank you, Chief) are exclaimed over before Commander Sisko sends them to their quarters to rest, clean up, and prepare a report for him.

When they leave ops, absolutely exhausted, he hasn't met Odo's eyes once.

*

They end up giving the report together. It makes sense: after all, they had spent most of their time separated. He wants to leave out certain details and he's sure the Major does too, but he knows his duty as a Starfleet officer and she knows hers as an officer of the Bajoran militia.

There's a partnership between them now, one that expresses itself through each carrying the other when they falter, through unhesitatingly picking up the next sentence when speech becomes too difficult. He had wanted a relationship like this since his first day on the station and had tried to get it by being an arrogant fool. ("Frontier medicine"? What _had_ he been thinking?) Now that he has it, though, he isn't sure this is how he wanted to have achieved it.

He makes it through the report somehow. By the end, the Major looks tense enough to shatter at a touch; who knows how he must look to her and Commander Sisko.

Sisko's voice is only a little softer than usual when he dismisses them. They leave the office together, but when it comes time to part, he's tonguetied.

Miles saves him. "Hey, Julian."

He looks over to where his friend is tinkering with something or other. "Yes, Chief?"

"Meet me down at Quark's at twenty-one hundred hours. You have the look of a man who needs a good pint," he says with a sympathetic smile.

Julian tries to smile back, though it feels as if someone has drained the muscles from his face. "Make it at least two and you have a deal," he answers and gets a chuckle.

By then, Major Kira has left, sparing him the need to say anything at all.

*

"So what was I like, anyway?" Miles inevitably asks him. Though, to be fair, he lets Julian get most of the way through his pint first.

"Quiet," he says, because it's the first word that comes to mind. It's true in more than one sense of the word. The other Miles had the air of a man who went through what passed for his life trying to take up as little space as possible. Small wonder—being noticed probably got him beaten.

He has another swallow of beer.

"Huh. That doesn't sound like me." The warmth in his voice invites Julian to share the joke, but to someone who has been "through the looking-glass," it isn't very funny.

"He was a slave," Julian says bluntly. "I imagine that would have something to do with it."

". . . I imagine it would." Now this Miles' voice has gone quiet, but in a way that has nothing to do with a permanent state of dull terror. He sits for a moment or so, staring into his mug, before he dares the next question: "What about Keiko? Or Molly?"

"It sounded as though he hasn't met Keiko yet—or if he has, they're not seeing each other." If she's even alive.

Miles lets out a breath. "Poor bastard." Another silence. Then, with a look out of the corner of his eye, he asks, "And what about yourself?"

Julian's smile is far more bitter than he would allow himself ordinarily, but he's been drinking and it's been a very long day. "I didn't have the pleasure."

It's just as well. He doesn't want to think about who would be looking back at him. After all, he assumes Terrans aren't usually considered good candidates for genetic engineering. Seeing the man his parents had killed, on top of everything else, would have been quite simply too much to tolerate.

"Just as well," Miles says in a strange echo of his thoughts. "That universe—hell, _no_ universe could take two of you in one spot. It'd probably end itself out of sheer, bloody annoyance."

That startles the first laugh from him all day, and he's actually still smiling when he tells the Chief, "Just for that, you're buying the next round."

Miles grins, obviously pleased at this bit of normalcy. "Quark! Bring us another!"

Quark grumbles but obeys, and for a time, it's not just the alcohol that helps him forget.

*

He has a hangover the next day, which doesn't even slightly surprise him. He knew he had been drinking too much the previous evening, but he hadn't cared. A painful wake-up had seemed more than a fair trade for some liquid anesthetic. It still does.

The hangover is quick to vanish—the wonders of modern medicine—and all morning, he thrusts himself headfirst into his work, only stopping long enough for a preliminary talk with the therapist he's been assigned. Commander Sisko had insisted he and Kira both take off the remainder of the previous day and had offered two or three more personal days on top of that. He'd considered the offer, though not for very long, but had turned it down. He wants things back to normal as quickly as possible, to root himself in this universe. He has the feeling the Major came to the same conclusion.

When Dr. Solan alerts him that it's time for lunch (in the manner of a concerned mother despite the grand total of six years' difference in their ages), his flurry of activity comes to a sudden halt. Garak will be waiting for him in the replimat.

He isn't sure he's ready to see him. Yesterday, if that universe's Sisko hadn't come to the rescue, the other Garak would have happily tortured him to death, him and Major Kira and the other Miles. And he—

 _No_. He's home now and safe, and he's _not_ going to let that other Garak sabotage his friendship with his Garak—the _real_ Garak.

He rises abruptly from his seat in the infirmary and stalks out the door. He'll probably have to reassure his staff and tell them there's nothing wrong, but later. He needs to get to the replimat before the cruelty of the other Garak's smile seeps still further into his mind.

The sight of Garak sitting at their usual table, sipping his Rokassa juice, is an effective antidote. The potency only increases when his friend looks up and smiles—a proper smile, a welcoming, even delighted smile.

"Ah, Doctor, there you are. I was wondering if I would see you today," he says as Julian seats himself in the opposite chair. Their knees bump and brush as he pulls in closer to let an engineer pass, but today, he doesn't mind. Actually, he welcomes the contact.

Garak sets down his mug and leans forward, eyes widening slightly in his version of an eyebrow-raise. "Are you quite recovered from your ordeal? It sounds as though you and Major Kira had a very difficult time of things."

"Yes, I'm fine now—thank you for asking," he says in what's become a very well rehearsed answer. The large number of people who had seen him heading for his quarters in the tatters of his uniform, covered in dried sweat and uridium dust, had resulted in a touching (though simultaneously tedious) amount of concern being expressed over the past two days.

"Indeed?" Garak asks and it's clear he isn't in any way taking him at his word. "Then I congratulate you on your resilience."

He lets out a breath. "Look, I don't want to talk about it right now. I just want to forget it ever happened."

"Of course. Then let's order lunch and discuss our book. Have you finished it yet?"

". . . Remind me what it is again?"

" _Sense and Sensibility_. It seems it was very memorable for you," Garak remarks and Julian grimaces slightly.

"No—it was fine. Actually, I enjoyed it more than I'd been expecting to."

They had decided last week to choose an author from their own planet whose books they had never read. Austen had never appealed to him from what he'd heard of her, but once he'd grown accustomed to the rhythm of the archaic language, she hadn't been bad. He'll have to try her other works someday.

In very little time, their conversation becomes a refuge, as had been his work this morning. Garak makes no comments about his time in the other universe and asks no questions, but he can still feel his friend watching him. It could have been a reminder of another man who pinned his victims with his stare, but Julian refuses to allow that.

He does a good job of keeping his mind on the discussion until Odo passes close to their table on patrol, and then his concentration falls to pieces.

Garak of course notices. "Doctor, if you would prefer to have this discussion at another time. . . ."

"No" —he forces himself to meet Garak's eyes— " _no_ , I wouldn't." He wipes his hand over his face. "I'm sorry, Garak. I'm doing a pretty poor job of keeping up my end of the conversation, aren't I?"

"Not particularly." Garak is silent, but Julian knows better than to think he's finished speaking. ". . . Might I ask a question?"

"Of course." He prepares himself, because there's been only one topic anyone's asked him about today.

"Did you meet me in this other universe?"

"Yes. I did." And despite himself, his gaze lowers.

"What was I like?"

It's not the simple question it appears. Garak might be speaking the same words Miles had, but his intent couldn't be more different. Julian knows Garak: curiosity might be a reason for the question, but it isn't _the_ reason.

"You were. . . ." He exhales and raises his head. He's never been one to flinch from delivering difficult news; he would be singularly unsuited for his profession if he were. "You were a torturer, the second-in-command of the station. You—you relished it. I was nothing but another Terran slave to you and you looked for any excuse to torture me—and the Major and the other Chief O'Brien. You almost got it."

He won't say the lack of recognition on Garak's face, coupled with the eagerness to break him into shards before he died, was what had hurt the most. That kind of pain isn't comparable to torture, can't possibly be. But it had still hurt, more than he would have thought.

Garak is silent for a beat, reflective. Then he leans forward. "I can assure you, Doctor, that if I ever find myself in a position where I need to extract information from you, I will take no pleasure in it whatsoever."

Maybe he could have pieced together a smile had Garak made a joke like that next week. Maybe he could have at least pretended to find some bit of amusement in his words. But not the very next day after his escape, not when Garak is only a week recovered from the surgery Julian had performed to remove that damned wire from his brain. He's still trying to work out what's true out of those stories Garak had told him and still trying to come to terms with the fact that no matter how he fits the parts together, he cannot make a cohesive whole where Garak has not done terrible things not so very long ago.

So, no, he has no smile for Garak today. He has only anger, until it's stalled in his chest by the touch of a dry hand covering his on the table.

It's so startling, so completely unlike all the other ways Garak has expressed his friendship, that Julian couldn't have stopped himself from meeting Garak's eyes even had he wanted to.

"Forgive me—that was too much," Garak says simply. "I would understand if you would prefer to avoid my company for the next few days. You shouldn't force yourself on my account."

Julian sighs. Most of the knot in his chest loosens. Before he thinks, he's flipped his hand beneath Garak's and clasped it in an echo of a moment beside an infirmary bed that he knows he'll never forget. If he can offer forgiveness for any number of unknown sins, a poorly chosen comment is nothing in comparison.

"You're right. That was too much. But I don't want to stay away from you." He smiles a little. He can feel the expression sitting improperly on his face, but at least it's there. "You're my friend, Garak, and I'm not about to let some false version of you affect my actions in an entirely different universe." He tries to lighten his tone. "I won't have him ruining my lunch on top of everything else he's done."

And now that he knows just how little enjoyment there is in his Garak's life, he absolutely does not add, he's not about to let that other Garak increase his friend's misery by keeping them apart.

"Not false, Doctor, only different," Garak reminds him . . . then relents. "But I am pleased that we'll be able to continue our discussion." He pulls his hand away and cool air flows in to take its place against Julian's skin. "Now, I believe you were giving me your impressions of Marianne?"

Julian pulls together his scattered thoughts and mostly manages to say what he'd planned before being trapped in the other universe. He never is able to devote his full attention to the conversation, however. A part of him is always tensed, waiting for Odo to walk by again, and his head turns at every beige uniform. Another part of him knows Garak is seeing this and teasing out the meaning of his behaviour, and as much as he fights against it, being so examined puts him in mind of the man he's trying to forget. 

He thinks it'll be days before he can see only this Garak looking back at him, and before the memory of irrational betrayal and rational fear has left him. But damn it, he is going to try.

He keeps his knee lightly, barely touching Garak's beneath the table, for the comfort of contact. Garak pretends not to notice.

*

The distance from the infirmary to security is less than one quarter of a turn around the promenade, and yet Julian has crossed twice that distance in half the time. It isn't that he's deliberately dragging his feet. It's that his mind has been throwing up a truly remarkable number of potential distractions in an attempt to shield him from what he's known for two days that he needs to do.

He could drop by Quark's, he thinks, and see if the Chief is there to bolster his determination. He could stop in the temple to continue his attempts to learn more about Bajoran culture.

When he finds himself wondering if he ought to go get a jumja stick first, he realizes what he's doing to himself. With a shake of his head and a press of his lips, he lengthens his stride and doesn't slow his pace until the doors of Odo's office have whirred shut behind him.

As always, Odo is reading some sort of report on criminal activity. His gaze flicks up, measures him for a beat, then returns to his padd. Here on DS9, the light makes the smoothed-out features of his face still smoother. It hides no part of him, and while his blue eyes pierce as deeply as Garak's, to be evaluated in their light is still easier to bear than to be judged by a shadowed face on Terok Nor.

"Can I help you, Doctor?" Odo asks when Julian doesn't speak, an overtone of mild surprise in his voice. Julian doesn't blame him—out of all the senior staff, he thinks only the Chief might visit him less.

Julian takes in a breath. He has to try twice; his air catches before he can pull enough in. "I have a confession to make."

Odo pauses. With deliberate actions, he raises his head and sets aside his padd. He sits up in his chair and leans forward with his elbows on his desk. Such clear interest doesn't set Julian at his ease.

"Go on."

His body brings him to attention, a remnant of his days as a cadet. He wasn't the sort to do anything to merit being called onto the carpet, but the instinct is present all the same. Then he raises his chin and speaks: "I killed you."

There's just a moment when Odo doesn't understand. Then he does—and, strangely, he relaxes. "You mean in that parallel universe you and the Major visited."

"That's right."

No excuses and only an explanation if Odo asks. He'd decided on that last night, after he'd awoken from the second nightmare. Anything else would undermine what he needs to do here, and he won't allow it.

He's a little surprised not to be condemned outright in any way—not even by the look on Odo's face—but he's not surprised when the first question is, "Might I ask why?"

"I was sent to ore processing because I was a Human—a Terran, they called me. While I was there, the Chief O'Brien of that universe and I came up with a plan for escape," he recites, and that's the end of the easy part. "When the two of us and the Terran slaves were escaping, you tried to stop us, and I . . . shot you with a phaser I'd stolen from a guard."

For the rest of his life, he'll never escape the image of Odo exploding like an oversized child's water bomb. One moment that Odo had been preparing to shoot, and then his remains were spraying the steam-filled, acrid air. Julian had only had a second to take in the shock of the violence—of course the guard's weapon would have been set to kill, he hadn't _thought_ —and then there had been no time to look back until he'd reached his quarters on DS9 and had nearly been sick. He'd avoided it then, but he's not sure he's going to keep that up if he can't permanently break the loop his mind has created of those few seconds.

"So," Odo says, and the playback is at least paused, "I was the overseer of the Terran slaves, was I?"

"Yes. You were."

"And you killing me wasn't premediated?"

"No, of course not! I'd only wanted to stop you, not kill you!"

It bursts out of him with too much force, but there's only so long a man can brace himself without snapping. Can't Odo just condemn him and be done?

Odo sits back in his chair. "Well, then, Doctor, I don't see the problem. In fact, while I'm not one to advocate execution without a proper trial, I'd say I should be thanking you. If I'd strayed that far from the course of justice, then I deserved far worse than a quick death from a phaser."

And then, of all things, he picks up his padd and goes back to his report.

Julian feels as though someone has concussed him, right down to the slight ringing in his ears. That . . . isn't truly the end of the conversation, is it? And yet, to all intents and purposes, that's exactly the impression Odo is giving.

"But . . . I killed you," he says into the silence.

"Yes, so you've said." Odo looks up. "Would you be happier if I were angry with you? If I threw you in a cell and put you on trial?"

"I—I think I would, actually."

Odo makes that dismissive noise that's become part of the background patchwork of his life, just as much as the hum of the station's Cardassian-made doors and the tinkling of the dabo wheel. "You think you would, but you wouldn't. If you're going to get over what happened, you don't need unnecessary punishment. That wouldn't be justice—that would be pointless.

"What you need is forgiveness. You already have mine, if that's what you want. Now go work on getting it from yourself."

He turns in his chair, its tall back a barrier more effective than any bulkhead. The conversation really is over now.

All the same, Julian stands there for a few moments longer, left unsure in the face of such abruptness. He tries, ". . . Thank you."

He receives a grunt in response, but no further movement. All that's left, then, is to turn and walk back onto the promenade.

He doesn't return to the infirmary directly. In fact, he goes up to the second level and watches the people pass by for a while, Human and Bajoran and countless other species mingling and coexisting without a second thought. He's on DS9, not Terok Nor, and though the sight of Odo's death is still waiting for its chance to play over in his mind, knowing he has this Odo's forgiveness is a great relief. He hopes, in time, he'll also be able to find forgiveness in himself.

For now, though, it's enough that he can stand comfortably in this place with his thoughts, without fear. He's safe, and he's home.


	3. 2x23 "Crossover," Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Intendant in the other universe is a power-craving narcistic despot. The idea that she has the potential to be that woman haunts Kira long after she's returned to DS9.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second part of three based on Episode 2x23 "Crossover," which focuses on Kira's recovery during approximately the same amount of time as Julian's in the previous chapter. Unfortunately for her, however, she had things rather worse than him.
> 
> On a personal note, unfortunately, as my job resumes with the beginning of the school year, the rate at which I'll be posting fics will slow down dramatically. I still have plenty of them lined up, but making time for proofreading will be much more difficult from now on. /sigh
> 
> Once again, this segment of the fic brought to you by "[Have You Ever](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WXTTfgu5prY)" by The Offspring.
>
>> Have you ever been at someplace  
> Recognizing everybody's face  
> Until you realized that there was no one there you knew

Though Kira has been back from that "looking-glass" universe for an entire afternoon, she doesn't feel safe. She feels the opposite of safe, the complete opposite of safe, and she despises it. She despises that other woman, the Intendant, for making her feel this way.

Except she isn't another woman and she can't pretend otherwise. She's not in the habit of lying to herself. If she's some . . . some narcistic despot in another universe, that means she has the potential to be that person in this one. She only needs to look inside herself to find everything the Intendant is. 

She wishes intensely that Commander Sisko hadn't ordered her off duty for the remainder of the day; she could have used the stress of too much work in not enough time. At least that's stress she's used to.

Instead, she spends her time walking the corridors of DS9, at least for a while. The promenade, she avoids. Within a single minute, she had learned she wasn't ready for a place with so many people yet. Not when it feels as though every passerby can see the Intendant coiled inside her, waiting for the right situation to emerge.

When even the most deserted places of the station feel too crowded, she retreats to her quarters and tries: tries to pray, tries to eat, tries to read, tries everything and succeeds at nothing.

By late evening, she's wound so tight, she knows she'll never sleep without help. Some of the people she knew during the Occupation used alcohol or other drugs on nights like these, but she's seen what happened to them. Their fates in the camps kept her clean and she's not about to change that now that she's warm and fed and sheltered. She's been in much worse situations than these, she tells herself. She's being ridiculous.

She could use a sleeping aid, a safe one. She could call down to the infirmary. Dr. Bashir isn't working tonight, for the same reason she isn't. She wouldn't need to see him.

She almost doesn't go, but in the end, she makes herself, just as she makes herself take the hypo once she's in bed. The medicine acts quickly and soon she's falling asleep, wrapped in a cocoon of guilt.

*

She wakes the next day feeling refreshed, and that, for some illogical reason, makes her angry. Everything does that morning. She cracks a glass at breakfast, and it doesn't matter that it came from the replicator and was only going to be reclaimed immediately afterwards—she can hear her father chiding her, telling her to be more careful, remember how hard it is to find good dishes in the camp. Her uniform won't button high enough; was it always this tight? Even the turbolifts are a source of frustration—they take too long to arrive and even longer to get her where she's going.

When she steps into ops and checks her schedule for the day, she actually grips a handful of her hair in disbelief. Someone must be playing a joke on her—a whole morning of dealing with ministers from the provisional government? Now? 

It will be a Prophets-damned _miracle_ if she has her job by the end of the day.

There's no sense in procrastinating, though. The only way out is through. She fixes a smile on her face, ignores the sympathetic looks Dax is sending her way, and opens a channel to the first government representative of the day.

By the end of that first transmission, she's lost her smile. By the end of the second, she loses a great deal more.

"I can't _believe_ this!" Her hands spread in the air before her, her fingers tight and painful with her fury. Does he even know how he sounds? "I've been telling you—your _experts_ have been telling you for months that Hill Province is in trouble and you're only asking me _now_ to get the Federation's help?"

The grey-haired man onscreen is leaning backwards, away from his terminal, and _good_ , he damn well should be scared! "Major Kira, please calm down. We had looked at the reports when we received them and had decided—"

Kira thrusts a finger forward. "No, don't you tell me to calm down! You shuffled your feet and you shuffled your papers and only now that you've run out of things to shuffle are you planning on doing anything! Let me tell you, Minister Emtar, there are going to be a lot of hungry children this winter even if the Federation agrees to help. I hope you can sleep with that on your conscience, because I sure as hell couldn't."

Minister Emtar gives her a concerned look and she's very grateful he's three hours away on Bajor right now, because if he were in front of her, she would have smashed that expression from his face. Then she really would lose her job.

"Perhaps we should continue this discussion at another time. I can see you're under a great deal of strain."

"Fu—" She stops herself barely in time. " _Fine_. Call me back tomorrow. We can finish our discussion then."

She nearly shatters the console ending the transmission. It's only when she hears the doors to Commander Sisko's office hiss open that she realizes how very quiet it's become in ops. 

"Major, may I see you in my office for a moment?" she hears Sisko ask.

"Yes, sir." She doesn't raise her head from where she's fixed her eyes on the empty screen in front of her until she's taken in and released a full breath. 

She keeps her chin high and stands at her full height when she crosses ops. She knows she's being stared at and she knows she's being pitied. While there's nothing she can do about that, she can at least refuse them the satisfaction of acknowledgment.

She keeps her hands pressed at her sides once she stops before Sisko's desk. She finds it easier to keep her gaze on his forehead than to meet his eyes. 

It had been simpler when she'd given her report yesterday with Bashir. She'd had a second person in the room, someone else she could focus on and help along when he'd stumbled. But now, she's alone with the commander of her station, the Emissary of the Prophets, and the exact double of the amoral pirate who had seemed to think it funny to sexually harass her. 

Her lips tighten and she can feel the tension in her brow. The other Sisko had been the one to behave shamefully, and yet she feels unclean for being touched like that by the Emissary. Her own brain makes no sense and it's just one more part of her day that infuriates her.

Commander Sisko finishes looking her over, in a completely different way from the other Sisko. His voice is deep and calm when he speaks. "Major, are you certain you should be on duty right now?"

She feels herself flush. "I am, Commander. I'm sorry about what happened with Minister Emtar. It won't happen again."

"Good. See that it doesn't. I'd hate to add an interstellar incident to my list of problems to solve today." His voice softens with his next words and that makes her stiffen. "Major, you need to talk to someone about what happened in that other universe. It's going to eat you alive if you don't."

She raises her chin, blinking to keep her eyes dry. She doesn't feel any tears yet and she wants to keep it that way. "Thank you for your concern, sir, but I don't exactly feel like counselling right now."

"It doesn't have to be a counselor, but you should talk to someone." She hears him let out a breath. At this point, her eyes are fixed on the stars through the viewing pane behind him. "I'm not singling you out—I hope Dr. Bashir will do the same. Both of you have undergone some very difficult experiences. It helps to have an outside perspective to make sense of them."

She doesn't know what to say. She wants to _forget_ , not talk. If anyone else were making this suggestion, she would put them in their place or put them off and then do what she had been planning on doing in the first place. But this is the _Emissary_ —she can't lie to him.

So, after a pause, she says only, "Thank you for your concern, sir."

Sisko sighs again. He isn't fooled. "I can't make you look after yourself, but I can temporarily relieve you of duty if what you've experienced interferes with your ability to do your job. Keep that in mind."

Her eyes flick down to him, and the tiredness she sees makes her gaze slip off his features. "Understood."

She hears the shift of his body and the quiet sounds of his chair. "Dismissed."

It's a little harder to keep her head up after a reprimand like that, but Kira does it as she exits Sisko's office, right until her way is blocked by Dax. She has only enough time to glimpse the serenity of the other woman's features and begin the first syllables of her rank before, bizarrely, she's wrapped up in a hug.

Kira tenses, and when it doesn't end right away—when it isn't perfunctory but sincerely meant—she gingerly sets her palms on Dax's back. She doesn't know what else to do.

When Dax finally steps back and takes her warmth and her comforting, clean scent with her, Kira asks, "What was that for?"

"You looked like you needed a hug," Dax tells her.

Reflexively, she says, "I'm _fine_ , Dax."

"Maybe so," she agrees, and she clearly believes her as much as the Commander had, "but I think everyone could do with a few more hugs around here. You seemed like a good place to start."

A smile tugs at her lips. Somehow, even on the very worst of days, Dax can always lift her mood. "Good luck with that—and let me know when you get to Odo, will you?"

Now there's a chuckle in Dax's voice. "I will. I bet it'll be quite the show."

"So do I," Kira agrees, and when she goes to contact the next minister on her list, for a while, her temper is a little easier to keep in check.

*

She eats her lunch quickly so she has time to go to the noonhour temple service. Dax's sympathy had lasted a while, but then it had been crowded out by the petty stupidities of politicians and the inevitable memories of a petulant tyrant with a talent for cruelty.

Commander Sisko wants her to talk to someone, but there's a real problem with that: she doesn't want anyone else to know about the Intendant. It's bad enough she had to submit a report to the Emissary of the Prophets; it's bad enough Dr. Bashir went to that universe with her. There's nothing she can do about them, but she can at least stop the information from going any farther. No one else should know what she's capable of, and so no one else will.

As she leaves the replimat for the temple, she avoids the table where Dr. Bashir and Garak sit, their heads bent together. They're both completely absorbed in their conversation with each other, as always, and even if feeling bitter about Dr. Bashir's quick recovery is beneath her, it's impossible to help.

The moment she smells the incense of the temple drifting from its entrance, however, her body eases slightly. That scent is a direct the pathway to one of the few comforting parts of her childhood, bypassing everything that happened between then and now. She quickens her pace and enters without looking at the priests that stand outside the temple to welcome the faithful. The prayers, the call and response, even the eventual ache in her knees as she kneels during the service, all of it is something she can fall into and in doing so forget everything but her devotion to the Prophets.

The service comes to an end, of course, and the mundane needs to replace the spiritual. She knows her duty, but as the other worshippers quietly rise and depart, Kira can't bring herself to join them. She stays, not quite praying and not quite meditating, as she listens to the head priest move about the room and extinguish the candles. More than anything else, she's simply _being_ in this place of safety until she needs to step back into the world.

Before she can bring herself to stand, the head priest kneels in front of her instead. 

"Nerys," he says softly in his old and compassionate voice. She blinks open her eyes. "You look deeply troubled."

She breathes out a laugh, because that is the biggest understatement she's heard all day. "Oh, Father, you have no idea."

He shifts his weight forward, and for the first time since yesterday, she doesn't need to quell the urge to lean away from the intrusion into her space. "Have you laid your cares before the Prophets, my dear?"

"I have, but—" She compresses her lips, looks down. Raises her head. "I don't know, I feel as if . . . as if I'm in one of those dreams. When you're shouting as loud as you can, but the only thing that comes out is a whisper. Or nothing. I'm trying, but. . . ."

She swallows and says nothing more.

He reaches out and gives a gentle squeeze to her upper arm with a swollen-knuckled hand. "Perhaps you need an intermediary."

"Maybe I do," she agrees, "but I wouldn't know where to start talking."

He smiles a bit. "At the risk of being trite, the beginning is often the best place."

"I have no idea where that is." She makes herself stand and the priest rises with her. "I need to go back on duty, but—thank you, Father. I'll keep your offer in mind."

His hand drops from her. "Please do. I'm ready to listen at any time of day or night."

"I'll remember that." She gives him a smile and very nearly feels it.

It's difficult, leaving this shelter, but it isn't impossible now. Maybe she will survive today, after all.

*

Her time at the temple carries her through the rest of her shift and lets her function almost normally. She's frustrated by the provisional government and occasionally her coworkers when they look at her too long, but she doesn't cause any more problems for Commander Sisko and the threat of being relieved of duty ceases to be a danger. Tomorrow will be better and so will the day after that. She'll have backsliding days, she knows from experience, but the more distance she puts between herself and her time in the looking-glass universe, the better she'll be.

There's a terrible moment when the doors of her quarters slide shut behind her and the silence shouts just how alone she is, but she pushes through it by going to the washroom and starting the sonic shower. Yesterday, solitude had been solace. Today, it presses on her ears and would be an amphitheatre for her thoughts if she allowed it.

She turns the shower to its highest setting, at the far end of the comfortable range. She's had hot baths in water before, once or twice, and she thinks something like that would be perfect. She could soak out the filth of the other place, along with the slime trails left by all those insolently sexual looks she'd received for being the Intendant's double. DS9 doesn't have the facilities for water baths, though, and like hell is she going to the holosuites to pretend. If she had to deal with Quark and his leers today, she'd probably send him through a wall.

The thought is pleasant enough to actually make her smile as she steps out of the shower, dresses in loose and comfortable off-duty clothes, and goes to get supper.

She replicates ratamba stew and a piece of tuwaly pie for dessert, even if she doesn't eat much of either. Lately, she's been branching out and trying Federation and Trill foods at Commander Sisko and Dax's encouragement, but not tonight. She'd rather something she knows she can count on.

She's just finishing reclaiming the dishes when the computer alerts her to a transmission, from Bareil. She hesitates for a very long moment—then sits down at the terminal and answers it. As long as she keeps the call short and the conversation trivial, she'll be fine. She will.

Bareil is already smiling as the connection is established. "Nerys—"

That's as far as he gets, because the moment his image appears onscreen, every last pent-up emotion explodes from her in the form of ugly, ragged sobbing.

Her vision is soon far too smeared with tears to make out his expression, but the alarm in his voice gives her a pretty good guess what it might be. "Nerys, what's wrong? What happened?"

"Nothing," she chokes out as she grinds her fingers against her eyes. "I'm _fine_."

"Nerys," he says again, her name a soft endearment. "Are you lying to your vedek?"

"M-Maybe," she manages and the absurdity is almost enough to make her laugh, until more tears gush from her eyes. Shame soon follows. "This is so _humiliating_."

"Bajoran," he corrects. "If you can find me one person who hasn't cried after a very difficult time, I'll show you an android." Somehow, his tone gentles further. "Why don't you tell me what happened?"

"I can't." She can bear a lot of things—and has throughout the course of her life—but she couldn't stand to see disappointment or disapproval or, worst of all, distance on Bareil's face.

"Why not?" he presses gently. "I promise you whatever it is, you can't shock me."

She laughs, the sound uglier than her sobs. "Want to bet?"

"I do, actually. I lived through the Occupation, too, you know. I'm hard to shock." Her vision is clear enough now to see him shift forward in whatever his seat is. "What shall we bet? A bottle of springwine? I have a particularly nice one I was saving for a special occasion."

"You're b-being ridiculous."

"Mm . . . I am." The coaxing smile fades from his lips. He's as serious as she's ever seen him when he goes on. "I want to help, Nerys. Whatever it is, whatever's happened, I promise: I won't judge."

"Because you're my vedek, and that's what vedeks are supposed to do, right?"

She breathes in a long breath, steadying herself. Her voice is still thick, but she thinks she might have cried herself out.

Until he goes on: "That's a piece of it, yes. But the biggest piece is—you're my partner, and I want to be there for you."

She crushes a hand across her eyes, which does absolutely nothing to stop the new tears from leaking out and into the cracks of her fingers.

It could be the reference he made to the fact that, despite his air of patient wisdom, he's known suffering, too. Maybe it's his reminder of the love they share, or maybe she's just too tired.

She doesn't care. She doesn't think, but only says in a thread of a voice, "All right."

*

Bareil insists on taking the last shuttle from Bajor to the station and there's not one thing she can say to change his mind. When she tries reminding him of his duties as a vedek, he only smiles and says, "The Prophets teach us that patience is one of the great virtues. It's one that many in the assembly could do to cultivate."

When she protests further, he tells her that there is nothing he needs to do that could not wait a day or two, and at that, she gives in. Her pride is out of excuses to keep him away. Her need to be close to him has won.

She spends the three hours of his trip doing a lot of nothing; her focus is long gone. Eventually, she goes down to the docking area well in advance of his arrival and stands there at uncomfortable attention until the shuttle has arrived.

Even if the shuttle had been full, Bareil would have stood out, as handsome (and as orange) as he is. With so few people arriving, she picks him out instantly, just before he sees her in turn. He holds out his arms, and tonight, she doesn't hesitate, but goes right to him.

When he brings her against him, for the first time since her noonday temple visit, she feels safe. She breathes in and her relaxation is so sudden, she half loses her balance. She can't say it out loud just yet, but . . . it's good he came.

Bareil doesn't push her to talk right away. They spend most of the evening sitting quietly together, her head on his shoulder, having some of that bottle of springwine he had mentioned. ("I can think of no occasion more special than spending time with you," he says, and were she a teenager, she would have blushed to her toes.) 

He makes no romantic gestures as they drift to bed, for which she's painfully grateful. He simply changes into his nightclothes in the next room, then curls around her in bed, his nose in her hair and a protective hand on her belly. Tonight, she doesn't need any artificial help to fall asleep.

It's hard, but, the next morning, she actually makes herself take a personal day. They spend it wandering the more isolated parts of the station hand in hand (to avoid the crowd Bareil would attract), playing springball in the holosuites, and sometimes just watching ships pass in and out the wormhole. 

They also, in small moments here and there, talk at last. Doing so is not quite impossible for her, but it's close. Intendant Kira Nerys is to the Humans of that universe what Gul Dukat had been to the Bajorans. To not only admit to someone she cares about deeply that she has the potential to become that person but to make herself so vulnerable. . . . 

And yet, no matter how much she hates that part of herself, no matter how many ways she expresses that hatred, Bareil counters it. Each self-loathing word is met with calm rationality until at the end, she's empty and weak and she might, just possibly, be able to find peace after all.

They don't make love—she isn't ready just yet and won't be for some time—but the kiss she gives him in private before he departs is much longer and fuller than she would have been capable of even the previous day.

She returns to her quarters after saying goodbye to him at the docking area, and she sighs a little this time when the doors close. Today, her quarters are not a sanctuary and they're not a terrible echoing space. They're her home.


	4. 2x23 "Crossover," Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A much-needed conversation for both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concluding part of my three-part series about Episode 2x23 "Crossover," and the one I most strongly wish had been a part of the show. I particularly would have liked to see a change in the relationship between Julian and Kira in later episodes after sharing such a terrible experience, but sadly it was not to be. Oh well--what can you do?
> 
> The next chapter to this fic will be completely unrelated to the preceding parts, so keep an eye out for it...eventually.

The morning after Bareil leaves, Kira sees Dr. Bashir alone with a mug of tea in the replimat. She comes to a stop, not quite sure what she wants to do next. She knows she needs to get over her hesitation to interact with him—her job is going to be difficult to perform if she's avoiding the station's chief medical officer—but is now the best time to do it?

Of course Dr. Bashir ends up looking up and noticing her. He waves her over with an oddly shy smile and that decides that.

"Good morning, Major," he greets her. "I was just about to have breakfast—would you care to join me?"

"I suppose—" she begins, but as she sits down, the stink of red leaf tea washes from his mug and she stops. It's too early for dealing with the memories the smell drags up, and on top of that, her defences are low. Already, she can tell this is a mistake.

Especially since Dr. Bashir doesn't notice anything amiss. "I'm going to go pick out something from the replicator. Can I get you anything while I'm up?"

. . . Well, she's here now. "A raktajino and hasperat would be fine, thanks."

His eyebrows lift. "You're having hasperat this early?"

"If anything is going to wake me up, it's going to be that," she doesn't quite snap, but it's close.

He holds up his hands. "All right, a raktajino and hasperat. I'll be right back."

They're awake early enough that the lines for the replicators are short. Dr. Bashir returns fairly quickly with both their meals and soon his soft voice is interrupting her mental planning of her day.

"Here we go—all set." He lifts her breakfast off his tray, then seats himself opposite with his.

She takes her first bite of hasperat, and then she gets a good look at what Dr. Bashir is eating. "You're not drinking red leaf tea with makapa toast."

"Why not?" he asks, looking from his meal to her in plain bewilderment. "They taste good together."

"Bajoran bread and _Cardassian_ tea?" she demands. She sets down her hasperat and gets ready to stand.

This, finally, Bashir notices. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't think—I'll be right back. I'll go get something else."

"Don't bother," she tells him, but he's already left.

When he returns with a different mug, she feels stupid. "You didn't need to do that."

"Yes I did," he counters. "I'm not about to make you uncomfortable over _breakfast_. I simply didn't realise it would bother you."

"It doesn't, usually. Not much." She blows out an impatient breath. "I'm just—sensitive today."

"It's fine," he says. His lips once again twitch into that uncharacteristically uncertain smile. "I would say you've more than earned the right."

Rather than keep meeting the sympathy on his face, she takes another bite of her hasperat. The replicators here never make it spicy enough, but the burn of it on her tongue is still distraction enough.

Bashir of course fills in the silence. "It's . . . strange, being back here, isn't it? It's a little hard to get used to DS9 after being in the other universe. I can't stop thinking about how so many people are suffering there. We didn't fix a single thing—all we did was escape."

She doesn't want to be having this conversation right now and she doesn't want to be having it with a naive Federation officer . . . but his words echo her own thoughts closely enough that she feels the need to contribute at least something.

"We have our own universe to look after."

He looks unhappy; his voice is heavy when he agrees, "I suppose you're right. And at any rate, Starfleet would never agree to allow me or anyone else go on purpose." He fiddles with his fresh mug of tea, turning it on the table by its handle. "It's just . . . I look around and think back to where we've been, and. . . ."

"It's too bright here," she finishes for him. 

She doesn't mean the lights. She still feels out of place sometimes, as though someone like her were better suited to that grimy other universe. Bareil had spent a long, long time arguing against that. He'd also argued against her conviction that she could have, that she _would_ have become the Intendant were she born on the other Bajor. She'd come to believe him, eventually, for the most part, but her memories of the Resistance had been disturbed from where she had buried them, and until they settle again like silt in a river, it will be difficult not to remember just how much blood is on her hands.

Incredibly, Bashir seems to know what she's talking about. "It is sometimes, isn't it? But, well" —he shares with her a quiet smile— "our eyes will adjust given enough time."

She doesn't smile back, but her features relax a bit. "I hope you're right."

"Don't worry." He reaches out to touch her hand, then seems to reconsider it. "I'm sure of it."

There's a moment of silence when they both have some more to eat, and then Bashir asks, "So . . . what are you going to be doing today, Major?"

She tells him and then, after only a brief pause, asks him the same question in return. She deliberately uses his given name and it's ridiculous how happy it makes him. Still, spending time with him isn't so bad—it's certainly better than it had been on the runabout before all of this had happened. Maybe some good will come out of the whole experience, in the form of a better working relationship with Dr. Bashir. She wouldn't call it a friendship, though.

. . . Not yet.


	5. 5x14 "In Purgatory's Shadow"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ziyal has many reasons to stay on DS9.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a rewrite of the scene where Dukat and Ziyal part. Originally, the only reason given for Ziyal wanting to stay on DS9 was that she was waiting for Garak. That really didn't jive with me, though (and it was pretty damn sexist): surely Ziyal would have all kinds of reasons behind her decision. And so this is what came out of that thought.

Tora Ziyal had done many difficult things in the course of her life. She had buried her mother and been left completely alone at age thirteen to live however she could. She'd survived a Breen mining camp for six years with only distant hope of rescue.

Disobeying her father's wishes wasn't comparable to those parts of her life—it couldn't possibly be. But that didn't make acting against him easy.

"Ziyal, you have to trust me," her father said, and even if it had been a long time since she'd last seen him, it wouldn't have taken any degree of familiarity to tell he was very, very displeased with her. "Things are going to change on Cardassia."

She loved her father, she truly did, but to hear such astonishing naiveté coming from him of all people was so absurd, she nearly laughed as she asked, "What things?"

It was a mistake and an obvious one. She could see nearly all that was left of his patience erode as he bit out, "I don't have time to explain. You're leaving. Now."

He turned to step into the shuttle, assuming she would follow like one of his soldiers. There was no question in his mind that she would do anything else.

"I can't go."

He spun around, fast and tight and furious, but she stood her ground.

"It's him, isn't it?" he accused. "That despicable tailor. You don't want to leave because you're _waiting_ for him?"

She shook her head. "It's not just Garak. It's Major Kira and Jadzia and Julian . . . and everyone else on the station. I have a home here, Father. I can't abandon them now when they've been so good to me."

"Your home is on Cardassia," he insisted. He wasn't shouting, but his jaw was as tight as a Breen's fist.

And he still didn't understand. "I have you on Cardassia. That's all. I love you, Father, but . . . but you can't be a home for me. DS9 can, and it is. I feel safe here."

He stared down at her, a slash of a line between his brows. "There is a Dominion _fleet_ on its way here."

"I know."

How could she explain it to him? Her father wasn't always safe—the work he did was often very dangerous—but he had never been powerless. She had. There had never been a place for her on Bajor or Cardassia; she had been a hated outcast on both worlds. And the Breen camp . . . that had been no better than living among the Pah-Wraiths.

But on DS9, there were people who liked her. She made the Bajorans uncomfortable for the most part, it was true, but the others didn't care. And she had friends here, real ones, who weren't interested in what she could get or do for them—they liked her for who she was.

They were people here who would fight for her, and for their sakes, she would do anything.

"I don't care," she went on. She couldn't find the words to explain her thoughts to her father, but she did know how to explain this. "I can't turn my back on them now. There might not be much I can do to help them, but" —she smiled a little, a twitch of an expression— "I can at least be an extra pair of hands."

She could carry cargo or use a dermal regenerator or shoot a gun. It didn't much matter to her. All that did was that she stay here.

"This is ridiculous." Her father shifted his weight from one foot to the other; his patience was going again. He'd tried for her sake, but— "Are these people truly more important to you than obeying your father?"

She couldn't answer that. She couldn't disappoint him with the truth.

Even if she didn't speak, he saw her answer all the same. His anger was plain in his glare, in the dent in his cheek that appeared when someone was behaving poorly, in the way the tendons and ridges of his neck stood out. Anger, she could bear. She knew very well how to stand it. But the way he pulled back from her, putting physical and emotional distance between them—she had no defences against such a terrible loss, and that one gesture nearly made her recant her decision on the spot.

"So be it." Her father's voice was low with betrayal, and oh, it _hurt_. "Stay here if that's what you want. Stay here and be damned."

He turned his back on her and left her standing alone in the corridor, her fingers half-curled and her limbs trembling at the sight of him walking away. She knew she was doing the right thing—there was no question of her making any other choice. She could only hope that when this was all over, if they were both still alive, he would forgive her for her defiance.


	6. 3x05 "Second Skin"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truest pleasure in Tekeny Ghemor's life is the regular correspondence he shares with his daughter, Kira Nerys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ghemor is one of my absolute favourite minor characters in any Star Trek series, and I simply adore his relationship with Kira. But I couldn't believe that, when he returned in "Ties of Blood and Water," that they'd had no contact whatsoever in two years! So, rather than them spying on each other for news, I decided to write this.

Life among the Mathenites is strange but not unpleasant, Tekeny Ghemor has found. He would call them a quiet but compassionate people, but he's old enough to know that making generalisations about an entire species based on a handful of individuals is more than a little foolish (and, for that matter, insulting). 

Still, all the Mathenites he's met have been kind to him. Upon his arrival to Ithenia, they introduced him to the small community of Cardassian exiles living in the city he's chosen as his new home—he was not the first to be offered sanctuary and he doubts he will be the last. They assured him that the weather will grow warmer once winter is over and they answered all his obvious questions about their cultures and ways. And they've ensured that any communications from his newly acquired daughter are routed to him the moment they come in.

He always drops his work at once to view the messages. It is true that what he's doing might be of great importance even now that his influence has died to embers, but family is all.

Today, Nerys beams at him from the small screen of his computer, and he feels himself smile back. She looks healthier than the last time, better rested. The last message had been brief, and it had been clear from her harried demeanour, her lack of all but the most basic makeup, and the way she seemed to have been trying to pull out her own hair, that she'd been overworked.

This time her smile is free and her lips are brilliant red. It's a good colour on her. It suits her.

"Hello, Tekeny," she greets him. He still can't convince her to call him "Father." Maybe someday. "You really didn't need to send me that sculpture. It must have cost a fortune!"

He squints and, over her shoulder, he can pick out a glint of purple-green. Mathenite gem-cutting is second to none, and the moment he'd seen the smooth curls of the piece, he'd known exactly who should have it.

"But thank you." Her smile slips into something warm and grateful. "It's beautiful. I don't get many visitors to my quarters, but when I do invite someone in, I always get a lot of compliments on it."

He shakes his head a little at that. She's still working too hard. He'd been hoping this "Dax" he keeps hearing about would help her relax, or her young man, but—well, these things really do take time. Especially when. . . .

"We've almost got the station back to normal," she's been saying. "At this point, most of the work left is for Chief O'Brien to sort out." She actually chuckles. "The other day in ops, Dax said something like, 'Huh, that's strange. What's this program?' while he was walking by, as a joke. I thought we were going to have to call for Dr. Bashir." 

He's glad she can share Dax's humour about the situation. Returning the station to normal after its near-destruction had been an extremely stressful experience for Nerys. (And for him. Hearing how close he'd come to losing her so soon after finding her, even after the fact, had done no better for his heart than it had for Chief O'Brien's after that prank.)

"I'm hoping we'll get a little breathing space after this, but" —her smile turns wry— "I doubt it. There's never—"

The sound of a doorchime interrupts her and she reflexively glances over her shoulder. "Hold on."

She reaches to pause the recording and the screen blanks out. A second later, it flicks on again, but it's clear much time has passed. Nerys is sitting in a slightly different position now. Her hair is ruffled and he can see a touch of sweat at her temples.

She sounds slightly out of sorts when she apologises, "Sorry. I forgot I let Dax talk me into trying one of her Klingon warrior programs in the holosuites. They're good exercise, but—" She grimaces. "I have no idea what she sees in them."

She has her sleeves pushed up, and now he can more easily see his wife's bracelet around her wrist. He smiles. She never fails to wear it for him, and that never fails to bring some lightness to his heart.

"Anyway. Let me see. . . ." Her gaze flicks up, then returns to the screen. "Bareil is doing fine. Kai Winn is keeping him busy, the same as always, but he never seems to mind. Sometimes I think I'm seeing a saint and not a vedek. . . ."

She continues on, answering his questions from his last transmission and adding her own news. Every word is sunlight heating away the Mathenite mist that seeps relentlessly into his bones. He doubts she has any idea how much of a joy the ordinary details of her life are to him, and neither does he know how to express that to her.

She's in the middle of relating her latest triumph over the bureaucrats of the Bajoran provisional government (a never-ending task to which he can very much relate) when her combadge chirps. "Sisko to Kira."

She sighs, but he can still see her straighten in her seat. "Sorry. Hold on again."

She leans forward and her hand moves toward her chest as the image is cut off.

The next instant, she's back. It must have been hours later—she's no longer in her uniform, but is wearing a flowing dress that to his untrained eye looks a bit like Cardassian styles without the structure. It's rust-coloured and clashes with her lipstick, but it's clear she doesn't care and neither does he. She's his daughter, and she's beautiful no matter what she looks like.

"I am so sorry." She takes a sip of something from a glass and her chin drops into her hand. "Some fool completely forgot basic docking procedures. We almost had a disaster on our hands. Then it was one thing after another, and—and you aren't listening to this to hear me complain about my job." 

Poor Nerys. He'll have to make sure to let her know he's more than happy to listen to her no matter what she has to say. If she can put up with his frustrations about maintaining his ties to the dissident movement, as ambiguously worded as his complaints are, he can more than do the same for her.

The corner of her mouth lifts. "Actually, I don't have a whole lot more to say. You've already heard most of my news. . . . Oh." She straightens, and her smile reappears. "I'm sending a little something along as a thank you for the sculpture. Quark talked me into adding a couple of bottles of kanar—it's probably pretty hard to get over on Ithenia. Just be careful, all right? Knowing him, I wouldn't be surprised if it was some third-rate garbage he was trying to offload on anyone he could sucker into taking it.

"Well . . . good night, Tekeny. You take care of yourself, all right? I'll talk to you soon."

She switches off the video, and this time the screen stays dark.

He's left smiling at his computer like the foolish old man that he is. With every transmission he receives, the fondness that lies behind Nerys' words grows more evident. Perhaps it won't be so long after all before she calls him "Father."

He decides against recording his response right away; too much paternal pride would only embarrass her. Instead, he returns to his work, quietly holding her words to his heart the entire time.

*

The promised "little something" comes a few weeks later. The kanar has gone somewhat off, as Nerys had expected, but some of his fellow exiles, the ones who have have been on Ithenia for years and not weeks, are willing to attempt it even after his warnings.

Far more precious to him are the other small gifts Nerys had included—a small charcoal drawing she had bought from an artist on the promenade, a book she had thought he might enjoy, and . . . a small holoimage. In it she stands very straight and her smile is awkward, but after he watches it loop a few times, he places it on the corner of his desk. He's looking forward to being asked who the woman in it is, so he can tell them all about his daughter.


End file.
